


Always, Yes

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M, Molly Moved On, Sort Of, learning how to love, lestrade is delighted, life in a glass house, life under mycroft's cctv, mummy is...mummy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: Written for a Tumblr prompt: I need some ficlets about how different people find out about John and Sherlock.





	Always, Yes

I’d never seen Mycroft speechless. I no longer found the Stalinesque office intimidating, and I’d faced down a hundred versions of his poker face, but this was new. At first I thought he was angry, and then I thought he didn’t believe me, and finally I realized he actually looked moved, and uncomfortable about it. Well, I never can predict him. I don’t even think Sherlock can. “Anyway,” I said, “I wanted to tell you first. Before the CCTV team tracked us kissing somewhere in a back alley and you took out a hit on me.” Not even a pained grimace in response to the humour. He was still just looking at me. “I swear I’ll take care of him.”

“I trust you will,” he said, finally, a little faintly. 

“Be warned, he plans to tell your parents next.”

“I’ll brace myself.” 

_“Don’t_ bug the flat.”

“I make no promises.”

I found we were smiling at each other.

* * *

When the sun started to drop below the city skyline, and Lestrade got up to switch on the lights, “I’ve got to go,” I said, “Rosie’s sitter’s time is up. Sherlock?” I know by now when he isn’t hearing me. I brushed my fingers over the back of his hand, and his eyes flickered away from the paperwork spread over the table and came slowly up to rest on me. “I’ll meet you at home, yeah?”

“Right,” he said, vague, but fond, “I’ll be done soon.”

“No, you won’t,” I said, and reached for the hand again, and squeezed it, so he knew I didn’t mind. “Unless you solve it. Wake me up and tell me all about it at arse o’clock, when you get in.”

“Mm,” he agreed, drifting again already. I turned to Lestrade.

“Got to go,” I was going to say, but his expression stopped me.

“Since when?” he demanded, and I felt my ears flush.

“Since three days ago.” I was surprised we’d kept it to ourselves that long. Every time I looked at him I wanted to kiss him. Half a decade of repression all let out at once.

“Go on, then. God.” He was starting to grin, hugely. “Go get Rosie. I’ll interrogate this one instead. But you’re going to get it from me tomorrow.”

“Piss off.” My whole face had gone hot, but the grin was contagious.

* * *

I was just outside the sitting room door, pulling off my hat and scarf, when I registered Molly’s laugh. I hesitated. They’d been having a hard time, lately. This sounded--good. 

“So you really aren’t surprised,” said Sherlock’s voice, and she laughed again.

“Not since he moved back here. You should have seen him, day of, going in circles round his flat. He was so happy he couldn’t think,” she said in a tone properly described as maternal, and I nearly turned around and went right back downstairs. I’d had no idea I was that obvious. “I had to talk him through taping up the boxes and emptying the fridge.”

“I didn’t know.” Sherlock sounded flustered, but very pleased. I sat down on the top step and sighed. I could suffer a little embarrassment for that tone.

“So yes, I knew. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

"Just--be kind to each other. And talk to each other, for God's sake."

"All right."

"And stop stealing my scalpels. I do notice."

"All right."

* * *

“You realize the media’s going to find out.” He’d been playing something pensive for half an hour, and I’d been drowsing in my chair. I jumped awake.

“Hm. Yes.”

“Maybe we should just tell them.” 

I sat up straighter and scrubbed my hands over my face, through my hair. He looked worried. “Control the narrative?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” We don’t have a happy history with publicity. It’s a side effect of loving him I hadn’t anticipated: glass house living. Being on display. Having one’s life considered public property. “What do you want to do? An interview?”

“God, no.” He looked horrified. “Never again.” 

“Twitter? YouTube upload? Take out a billboard?”

“John,” he scolded me, and crossed the room to stand in front of my chair. I looked up at him, soft in the lamplight, beautiful. Mine.

“Then what?” I said, and pushed myself slowly out of the chair (old man, I am) to kiss him.

“Hmmm,” he said, indistinctly, into my mouth, and then, “Put it on your blog, and come away with me.”

“Where?” 

“Italy. Malindi. Morocco. Anywhere with mopeds.”

“Rosie?”

“My parents would be overjoyed to keep her.”

“How long?”

“A month? Just enough. Please, John.” 

And oh, God, he says that so rarely, and he needs me so honestly. I caught his mouth again and kissed it slowly, breathing him in, until he made a sound past words, and then I let him go and said, “Yes.”

“To what?”

“All of it. Always. Yes.”


End file.
